Ziva's Treasure
by FotoBridgeT2
Summary: While back in Tel Aviv, Ziva finds the one thing she never expected. But when she is called back to NCIS, how will this change things? ZIVA/?
1. Chapter 1

(**Fanfictions are just me goofing off, although this one has a more serious slant. It takes place the summer of O8 after Vance does his little team split. Don't worry—they will be reunited…**

**I do not edit fanfictions, they are just a way for me to focus on someone else's characters for a change, so unless something is so glaringly wrong—I don't know much about modern Jewish culture—please ignore it. Thank you and happy reading)**

It felt—odd—to be back on the streets of Tel Aviv, Ziva thought as the sights and sounds of what was once her home rushed to her. She felt like she no longer belonged. She didn't. This was not her home now; her home was back with Gibbs, Tony, McGee and the rest.

But they were not there anymore. Vance had seen to that. She would just have to accept that. She could. She knew she could. So why hadn't she? She'd been back in Israel for two weeks, and it just didn't feel right. But orders—they were orders and she must follow them. Hadn't she dedicated her life to Moussad? Wasn't she obligated to do what they told her, no matter what?

But she missed them so much it hurt.

That's why she found herself walking down this street so late at night. Sometimes, it just wasn't safe to be out in this city, but walking was the only way Ziva could think to clear her head. Ziva was not meant to be grieving and unemployed, and Moussad had yet to send her out on assignment. So she was stuck in her apartment with only one thing to do—wait. Ziva hated waiting.

So she walked, and she walked some more. She walked down an alley, always careful of what may be down it, knowing she presented a vulnerable sight. She was a woman and thin-built, and most men would be deceived into thinking she was an easy target. She almost wished someone would step forward to challenge her. The warm night air was tingling against her skin, raising her awareness, her adrenaline, making her ready for a fight.

She stopped abruptly, hearing the sound of metal hitting the gravel of the alley. Might be only a cat, Ziva thought, as she pulled her knife from her waist. Gibbs' rules floated quickly through her mind—never forget your knife, never assume, being the most relevant.

If it wasn't a cat?

Her hand rested on the hilt of the knife, perfectly balanced with her own special blends of Israeli sands. Her gun—the one not NCIS issue, and therefore hers to keep—was strapped to her ankle. Still, if she had need of a weapon a knife would be so much quieter.

She rounded the corner of the building, eyes missing nothing, even though the light in the alley was almost nil. She flattened herself against the old bricks of the building and scanned the area.

Even though she was no novice in the dangerous game she'd played since the age of seventeen, the loud crashing metal nearly made her jump out of her flesh.

She moved closer still, determined to find out what it was down this lonely and dangerous alley.

Most people did not wonder this area of the city alone, only those with nothing to lose like her even dared venture there in the daytime.

Her hand tightened on the hilt, she stepped around the only object large enough to provide any cover, ready at once to apprehend—or neutralize, if necessary—whomever, whatever, chose this particular space.

Her eyes had to drop three feet to see what it was. All she could see was eyes, dark, dull, eyes too old to be in the face that held them.

"Little one, why are you here?" she asked in her native tongue.

The child did not answer, but moved further behind the boxes he stood behind.

"Come, child. I will not hurt you." Ziva dropped to her knees before the child—boy, girl, she couldn't tell. The kid was filthy, even in the dim light wafting from the windows above she could see the dark streaks of grime coating the child's skin. He-she—wore little more than rags tied round its little body, and its hair hung long and clumped over the big dark eyes.

She looked around the alley again, knowing instinctively that they were alone. Why was a child so young, left so alone?

"You have no mamma or papa?" She asked again, re-sheathing her knife, then holding out a beckoning hand. "You have a hungry belly?"

The child acted confused, as if the words and the kindness behind them were as foreign to him/her as the feel of soap and water most likely was.

"Come with me, little one, and we will both find us some food, no?" Ziva knew she could grab the child, force it to do her will, but she didn't know if she could risk the terror. Only for its own good, she decided. _No baby should be alone here, _she told herself. Being alone was, as Tony would put it—sucked.

She waited for many long moments, hand outstretched, watching the little face for any sign of folding, and was just about to grab the child and carry it home with her when it held out a little hand and placed it trustingly in hers.


	2. Chapter 2

Timofei Yitro Asher Matan David

Ziva didn't know what to do with a child, so she improvised. She led the child into the sparsely furnished Moussad-provided apartment, flipping on the light as she did so. The little one flinched, not expecting the brightness.

What had the child's life been like, if even the light was so frightening? Ziva and the child paused in the living room, staring untrustingly, warily, at one another. In the bright lamp light Ziva was able to get her first real good look at the little foundling. Thirty pounds, she thought to herself, cataloging the little one's features quickly. Around age three, she suspected. Maybe a little older, or a little younger if its family ran to bigger children. No way to know, but that was the least of her concerns. Scratches marred the little cheeks, that and the dirt that only city grime can represent. The clothing, most likely a pillowcase of some sort, was old and printed with tiny little squares. Ziva wondered where the little one had found it. It wasn't much, and she knew that it provided little protection against the harsh elements.

Poor little one, she thought. "Bath first, my little treasure, or would you like something to fill that hole in your belly?"

It was a rhetorical question. She knew it, so when the little one didn't answer, she took matters in hand. "Bath first, so that we can see just what we are dealing with, hmm? Come. We shall clean you up."

The child seemed leery but still put that tiny hand back into Ziva's as she led the way to the small bathroom off the hall. She started the water, filling the little tub quickly as the child's eyes widened in intense fear. She knew then that the little one had not had a bath in a long, long time. Just how had this little one survived the streets of Tel Aviv for even a day? From the grime and the condition the little one was in—a condition she'd found herself in on the streets of Egypt so many years ago, her and Jenny—she knew it had been a long while that the child had been a street urchin.

"Come, warm, see?" She trailed her hand along the surface of the water, showing the child that it was safe. She was determined the child have a bath, it was not sanitary or healthy for one to be so grimy. Hadn't Jenny caught that horrible sickness in Uzbekistan? Ziva had seriously thought Jenny would be dead, and it was all because of that horrible infection.

Sometimes she missed her friend so much it hurt.

But that moment wasn't the time to address such grief. This little one needed her. First, a bath. Second, food. Third, sleep. Then she would decide what to do next in the morning.

The bath revealed only two things. One, the child was way too thin and two, it was a boy child. He nearly inhaled the small dinner she set in front of him, using his spoon only after she showed him the mechanics, and even then he did so messily.

Somehow, Ziva knew this little had never eaten at a proper table.

"Do you have a name, little treasure?" Ziva asked as the child finished the last of the food in his bowl. "Do you have a family?"

The little one looked so puzzled, Ziva repeated her words in three other languages. Still, the little one knew not what she spoke of.

"Well, then. We must give this some thought. A name is something to be proud of, to cherish and protect. Only the best name will do. Now, come, we must get sleep, for tomorrow we must decide what to do with you." She picked the boy up and he resisted none at all, but she knew inside he did not trust her, that he was just too…lost…to fight. Too young to know to fight, if needed.

Her heart was touched by his clear vulnerability and as she looked into his big hazel-brown eyes she made him a solemn oath—she would protect him until he was old enough to protect himself. "I swear, my little one. Never will you be harmed while I breathe."

She lay him on her bed, tucking the thin blankets tight around his little body, encased in one of her t-shirts, and stayed with him until he slept.

She watched him for several moments, her eyes tracing the rounded little cheeks as the boy's mouth went slack with sleep. With those big eyes closed, and the lighter brown hair he reminded her of McGee, all sweet and vulnerable.

"I will call you Timofey, in honor of one of the great men I have known. Would you like that, little treasure?" She whispered to him, as she lay beside him, thinking of what tomorrow would bring.


	3. Chapter 3

The next morning Ziva awoke when the child beside her started stirring. She'd given it much thought, and given her lifestyle, she knew the child would not be safe with her for long. She was an assassin who slept with a gun beneath her pillow, so how could she protect a child—even short term?

The only option was one of the orphanages run by the city. They were not ideal, but at least little Timofey would be fed, clothed, and sheltered. And she could maybe sponsor him, providing extra help financially when he needed it?

A benevolent elf godmother, or such.

She soothed the boy when he panicked, seeing her and the strange place he found himself. It seemed almost natural when little Timofey laid his head upon her shoulder. His hands played with the star of David necklace around her neck, touching it so gently.

She carried him to the kitchenette and fed him a bowl of cold cereal. He stared at it suspiciously, but when she placed a spoon into his hand he attacked the fare eagerly. She laughed then, seeing a fleeting reminder of Tony around his eyes when they lit up at the sugary food. _Boys, _she thought, _were the same no matter what the culture. _

She had nothing to dress him but another t-shirt that fell to his small ankles. She smiled, recognizing it as one she had borrow from Gibbs when she'd hid in his basement so many months before. NCIS was printed in bold black letters across his little chest. It brought back m"ixed feelings, remembering how she had clung to that shirt and the man beneath it when he'd first arrived from Mexico.

She couldn't remember ever feeling that sense of relief, of trust, of safety, as she had when she'd seen his face, his hair overly long and his skin tanned darker than hers.

Sometimes, she knew it was him she missed the most. He was, after all, the only man she had ever fully trusted.

"My little treasure, I shall call you Yithro, too, as an honor to Gibbs, I think. He is another good man. Do you like that? Timofey Yithro David. Two great names, I think, you?" she waited a moment, but the boy just stared at her, puzzlement in his expression.

"Someday, you will be a great man, too. This I promise you."

TIMOFEYYITHRODAVIDTIMOFEYYITHRODAVID

The orphanage was dirty, the second one was cramped, the third was cold, the fourth was hot. The fifth held the most potential—until Ziva noticed the bruises on several of the children.

Little Timofey held tightly to her hand, staring at the children around him with the fear of a thousand nightmares in his little face.

"Miss, your boy will be provided for here." The director of the orphanage said, but Ziva could see the blatant falsehood in the faces of the children milling about. They were shut up here, dirty and unwanted, and this was not what she wanted for Timofey.

"No. I will keep him, one way or another, he will be cared for by me." Ziva told him, holding back on her anger—but only as not to frighten the children, especially Timofey.

The next stop after the orphanage was a clothing shop. Timofey needed clothes that fit him, so that is what Ziva bought him. She placed the kippa on his head with a sense of pride, noticing how adorable he now looked. His hair was too long, but she would deal with that when they returned home.

She cut his hair while she waited for the papers to arrive. When they did, she led her old colleague into the small apartment. She'd hidden the boy in the bedroom, never in the habit of trusting people, even those she'd once worked with. But Uri owed her a favor, for a debt she'd never let him repay, so she was reasonably assured she had his silence.

"Shalom, Uri."

"Shalom, Ziva, I got what you wanted." He handed her a packet of documents, forged certificates listing her as the boy's guardian. Her father did not know all of her friends, and having the documents stating that Ziva was granted custody, her father could not truly interfere.

A Moussad mother was better than no mother—at least that is what she told herself.

"It is authentic? With the names I gave you?" She opened the package, rifling through the birth certificate listing the date of birth and name of parents she had fabricated for the new Timofey Yithro.

"I added two names to match a couple who died recently and left a boy child. Timofey Yithro Asher Matan—now David as well." Uri said, eyes betraying no curiosity over what the woman before was doing. Sometimes it was just better not to know. "A big name for a small child, Ziva. I hope you know what you are doing."

"Forget what I am doing, Uri. And consider our debt as paid."

"Our debt, my friend, will never be fully repaid—I owe you too much. Good luck, Ziva. New mother of Timofey Yithro Asher Matan David. It is a long path you will follow."


	4. Chapter 4

After Uri left, the enormity of the situation flooded Ziva's mind. She'd forged documents claiming a child as hers—a child she knew nothing about. But she knew what it was like to be alone and no child deserved that.

But now came the practicalities. She could not quit Moussad—her father would never understand. It just wasn't done. So who would watch the boy while she was on assignment?

Ziva did have an aunt, but she'd not seen her in almost eight years. Would she be willing to watch the boy?

And the apartment was not designed or equipped to house a maybe-three-year-old. He needed a bed, more clothing, children supplies—whatever they may be. She remembered Tony's glee at the little boy's bed shaped like a red car. Would Timofey like such a thing? Where would she find such?

This was probably the biggest task she'd ever set herself up for. Would she fail this child like she had failed Jenny?

For the moment, she and little Timofey focused on the here and now. She'd noticed earlier that the boy did not talk, he only expressed his feelings through a strange mix of grunts and gestures. It concerned her greatly. Did the boy even know how to speak?

If he'd not spoken to her by tomorrow, she'd be taking him to a doctor. But how? How would she explain that she knew nothing of the child's history.

ZIVAZIVAZIVAZIVAZIVA

She waited nervously in the waiting room—not really remembering the last time she'd been so truly worried. She'd had intricate covers before, but never had she feared so deeply that one would be blown. It wasn't just her now, it was little Timofey, too.

Timofey's name was called and Ziva led him by the hand back to the examination room. She lifted him up onto the table on the doctor's orders.

"What is the matter with this young man?" The doctor asked, his accent strong and thick. He was not native to Israel. Ziva was instantly suspicious—but this man was the premiere children's physician in the city, and hadn't she had to use her Moussad connections just to get him seen.

"I do not know. I just took guardianship this morning, doctor. But he doesn't appear to speak."

"Is this usual for him, miss?" The doctor asked, beginning a cursory examination of the small child.

"I'm afraid I do not know. I, uh, had never met him before. His mother, she was a distant cousin whom I had not seen in nearly a decade. I didn't even know she had a child—until he was brought to me this morning. I do not even know his age, doctor. But please, can you tell me if he is a healthy child?"

Two hours passed before the doctor could definitively answer her question. They had poked and prodded little Timofey until Ziva herself felt like crying. The boy hadn't so much as formed one word, although he did grunt in varying ways.

"He is suffering from malnutrition and developmental delays. He has several healed fractures, though none are serious enough to cause lasting damage—mostly fingers and toes. I'll need you, miss, to explain this to authorities."

"Authorities?" Ziva said, suspicion filling her tone. "But I told you all I know. Is he going to be okay?''

"Yes, and I have heard it before. But can you document this?" The doctor demanded angrily, putting himself between the child and the woman. She didn't look like the type to hurt a child, but after fifteen years in the profession, mostly in Middle Eastern countries he was not surprised by anything.

"Yes. I have his papers in my bag. We signed them this morning. I am Moussad, you can check my credentials. Please, will he be all right?" Ziva showed the man the forged documents and they seemed to pass his inspection.

"He needs nutrients, vaccinations, and a speech therapist, if you can afford it. I suspect the lack of language skills are merely due to a lack of exposure. His parents weren't death, by any chance? His hearing appears to be fine. The only other choice is abuse. Is it possible your relative abused him?"

"It is possible, yes. I remember her as not being a kind child." Ziva improvised, "But as a mother, I had not seen her since she had her bat mitzvah. I did not know of Timofey's existence until late last night. I don't have any records but the ones I have shown you, and his momma was killed in the fire that destroyed their house. I do not know anything of his father. So what do I do for him?"

"I am giving you prescriptions, we can take care of the basic vaccinations today. I want to see him next week. My only suggestion until we can open an appointment with a speech assistant is to work with him the way you would a younger child. If you need anything, Officer David, we are here. And I apologize for my earlier assumptions."

"You were protecting Timofey, I cannot argue with that." Ziva smiled for the first time since entering the office. "We thank you, Doctor."


	5. Chapter 5

Nearly a week passed before Ziva heard anything from her father and Moussad. What she heard was completely unexpected.

She was going back to NCIS. She was needed to testify in an international case they'd solved nearly four months before Jenny's death.

Ziva knew this was the hand of Gibbs. She'd only been minor involved because of the international connotations. They hadn't been aware which country was responsible so they'd opted to keep her out of it—on the off chance it had Moussad links.

Had Gibbs planned something?

She arranged with Uri one final document—little Timofey would need a passport. She'd yet to explain to her father about the boy and was hoping to be able to get him out of the country with her without anyone putting up a fuss. According to the letter from Moussad, she was to contact the American embassy to arrange a military transport within the next two days.

She had a flight arranged within fourteen hours of receiving Timofey's passport, and had packed them both one bag of necessities. She was ready.

Hours later she and Timofey were waiting in the American embassy when the news arrived that their plane was ready for them to board. It was just a military flight so they'd be riding in the back with the cargo. Ziva herself didn't mind, her only concerned was how the little one would react.

But he surprised her, only reacting when his ears popped from the altitude change. She comforted him the best she could, patting his little back until he settled. Soon he fell into a light nap.

After he awoke she read to him from the story book's she'd purchased. The doctor had said exposing him to words would help him develop his language skills so she had been determined to bring with him as many Jewish stories as she could fit into the bag with his clothing. Fortunately, much of her own possessions were still in the US. Abby had agreed to ship them to her by the end of the summer, once Ziva had found a permanent place of her own. But now that wasn't necessary. Ziva had no idea how long she would be in the US, so she'd have to make different arrangements.

The flight finally landed and they disembarked. Ziva's throat caught unexpectedly when she saw the men waiting at the gate. Gibbs and FBI Agent Fornell stood patiently. Gibbs saw her first and his mouth split into a wide grin. His eyes dropped to the little boy clinging to her hand and she could plainly see the question written on his face.

She'd expected that, and had rehearsed her cover with Timofey several times. A part of her felt guilty for not telling Gibbs the true circumstances, but in his country—and hers, to some extent—it was illegal to 

just find a child and keep it. She was afraid he wouldn't approve. Nothing bothered her—except maybe losing Gibbs' respect.

Gibbs surprised her by pulling her tightly to him. She wrapped her free arm around him, taking in the familiar smells that meant Gibbs to her. He always smelled like aftershave, sawdust, and boat. It was uniquely Gibbs, and it meant the world to her in that moment.

"Ziva, who is this?" Gibbs asked as he pulled away from her and looked a the little boy clinging silently to her hand. "Why is he with you?"

"This is my ward, Gibbs, his name is Timofey. His mother and father were killed in a house fire last month. There was no one else to take him. He is mine, now." Ziva's words were assured, though she waited for the first person she'd ever told about Timofey—except his doctor—that knew her to laugh and tell her she knew nothing about raising a child. Gibbs had to have his doubts about her, he was one of the few people who had a true inkling of exactly what she was capable of doing. "It is official, Gibbs. Timofey will be my son from now on."

"Hello Timofey, I am Uncle Gibbs." Gibbs said simply, dropping to one knee in front of the little boy. Ziva had dressed him much like she'd seen his namesake McGee dress in a neat little button down shirt and khaki trousers. The little kippa on his head was blue with a bright green frog embroidered on it. "Welcome to America."


	6. Chapter 6

Ziva kept a close eye on both Gibbs and Timofey as they entered the bullpen at NCIS. Timofey held tight to the older man's hand, though he kept shooting glances toward his new mother. They'd not been separated at all since the night she'd found him, and seeing him trusting another person—even Gibbs, who she knew had a strange connection to all children—made her more than a bit nervous.

Gibbs hadn't questioned her on the ride over, but neither had he said much about what was going on. Ziva hated it when he did that, kept her in the dark, and she knew he did on purpose, just out of perversity.

Instead, he'd questioned her about her trip, and attempted to talk to the child. Timofey had nodded his head occasionally, but Ziva knew he didn't understand a word Gibbs had said.

"Ziva, I'll call Ducky and see if he's free to watch him if you'd like to settle into your desk, again." Gibbs said, inordinately glad to see the young woman back in NCIS where she belonged.

It had been horrible losing Jenny, but then to lose the rest of his team because of Vance's machinations had made it worse.

He'd gotten Ziva back, now it was time to get the boys. Of course, he hadn't counted on getting little Timofey as well. He didn't know how he'd be able to handle having an agent with a child waiting at home. He knew first hand the dangers and the distractions she'd face. He paused and wondered a moment if the woman before him could manage it any better than he had.

"What do you need, Jethro? I was about to go to lunch with Mr. Palmer, something about Thai food." Ducky said, hurrying from the elevator. His words trailed off when he saw the woman standing beside his old friend. "Why, Officer David! Can I tell you what an immense pleasure it is to have you back where you belong."

"Thank you, Dr. Ducky. I am glad to be back." Ziva willingly gave the man a hug, glad to see him.

"And who is this fine young gentleman?" Ducky looked down into the dark eyes of the little boy clinging to Ziva's leg. "A new agent, perhaps?"

"Ducky, this is my new son Timofey David. He lives with me now." Ziva's voice rang with an unmistakable note of pride that had both men's eyebrows raising. Ziva was certainly good with children, but to be so enthusiastic of such a small boy was completely out of character for the tough Moussad agent.

"Can you watch him, Ducky? I need to talk to Ziva about some things." Gibbs said, just as the elevator dinged and the three newest team members stepped out. Gibbs would be the first to admit there was nothing wrong with the three new agents, but they were not _his _agents, and that made all the difference. "About the trial, and all."

"Certainly, my friend. Ziva, do you know if young Timofey—odd that he and our dear McGee would share a similar surname—enjoys Thai food?" Ducky smiled at the little boy, hoping to see the shy creature pop out fully from behind the young woman's leg. "Are you hungry, young man? Do you speak the English language?"

"He does not speak at all, Ducky. Developmental delays. I would like to discuss that with you later if I may?" Ziva said, matter-of-factly.

"We will make time this evening, my dear. As for Thai food, we will just have to see what he likes and doesn't." Ducky held a hand out to the child and waited patiently for him to take it.

Timofey seemed to understand that he was to accompany the doctor, but he looked at Ziva pleadingly. She dropped to her knees in front of him and told him softly that Ducky was a good friend and it would be safe for him to go eat with him. And she promised to be right there when he got back.

As she watched him go off with Ducky—a man she trusted nearly as much as she did Gibbs—she felt as if her heart was tearing in two. She'd never been apart from him since she'd found him, and she couldn't shake the unreasoning fear that something would happen to him while they were apart.

Gibbs read her expression with the experience of a parent. "He will be fine with Ducky, Ziva. And they'll only be gone for about an hour."

"I have had him with me at all times since he came to me, Gibbs. Is it supposed to be this hard?" Her eyes were so vulnerable that his mind instantly flashed back to the night she'd killed her brother to protect him. He'd comforted her then, a bare touch to her hand, respectful of her faith, until she'd thrown her arms around him and sobbed.

Then he'd held her close, smelling the mix of shampoo and sawdust on her hair.

He repeated the same words he'd told her that night, "It never gets easier, Ziva."


End file.
